14. Dry Humping
Dry Humping
Isla
Weapons training is quite literally everything I hoped it would be.
I think I must have always known there was something different about me. Something wrong .
If my inability to find a long-term partner was any indication, others knew it, too.
It's not that I've ever craved violence or sought it out. Well, before recently, anyway.
But this piece of me, this hunter side, has always been there, feeling like a caged beast just waiting for the moment it could finally break free.
Either to cause immense damage or save a life, it could go either way, as long as I got to unleash all this tension on someone.
And once I did, saving Cas from the Sanctus, from my fucking family, the beast refused to return quietly to its cage.
Between restless, nightmare-fueled evenings and the resulting achy, furious mornings, I've turned to alcohol even more than I did before. Not only do I use it to quiet my parents' voices in my head, screaming at me that if I turn against God, he'll turn against me too, but now I have to drown out the urges to create chaos and violence in every situation I'm placed in.
I caught myself in a meeting a few weeks ago daydreaming about beating some junior executive at a media company with a police baton. Landon.
"I just don't see why we're putting so much faith in someone who isn't even a part of our industry." "Honey, I've got a master's degree in communications and media."
Motherfucker, numbers are numbers. And yours fucking suck.
But I couldn't say that and keep a good relationship with the company itself. While they'll be bought out within the year, I still need to maintain a good reputation, and I'll need to bring my findings to whoever buys them to keep the account.
"You're distracted," Eamon brings me into the present. I snap back into focus, my eyes narrowing on his handsome face. "Maybe now isn't a good time for you to be holding an axe. You could really hurt yourself."
"I'm focused," I bite.
Holding back a laugh, he gently grips the small axe in my hand. Not taking it, just easing it down. "You're not. What's up?"
Annoyance ripples through me, "Is this what we do now? Are we fucking buddies talking about our personal lives?"
His brows raise to his hairline, creating small lines across his forehead that I want to smooth. No, I don't.
He keeps that gentle tone, not taking the bait for once, "We're here to train. But if you can't do that safely , we won't do it at all."
"I'm focused." I have to be. Otherwise, I'll spend the rest of the next hour waiting to deal with that little prick again. I try to rip the weapon from Eamon's grasp, but he doesn't move even an inch.
"Isla," he sighs. "Personal or professional?"
"What?"
"Is it a personal or a professional problem drawing your attention away from something you've been looking forward to for weeks?" he asks, making me realize what's happening here.
I have been really looking forward to this. I've had my eye on this ultra shiny, deadly sharp little tool since the beginning. I mean, it's no mace, but apparently, I'm not ready for that yet. And I'm letting Landon pull my attention away from letting off steam the way my body has been craving.
"Professional," I blow out a breath. Eamon releases the axe, stepping back and gesturing at the dummy. "This little shit at Paradigm Media thinks he knows better than me and doesn't even try to remain cordial."
"Alright, so what are you gonna do about it?" he asks, stepping out of the way of the blows he expects me to start raining down.
I shake off the excess energy, trying to bring myself back to center, swinging the axe until it plunges into the neck of what's left of my target. The hard landing radiates through my arm into my shoulder.
"There's not much I can do," I answer as I wiggle the axe free. "Just have to get through their numbers and report back."
"He doesn't like the figures you're giving? So they must not reflect very nicely on him."
Another blow lands, this time right in the forehead of the dummy. "No, they do not."
Hit after hit, Eamon asks me to explain the entire situation, letting me vent between the flying chunks of hard plastic and styrofoam.
He chuckles after I nearly take the head off the dummy altogether, removing the axe and twirling it in his hands. It looks so much smaller between his deft fingers, almost dainty.
"Threaten to walk," he shrugs, handing it back to me.
My hands fall to my sides, the catharsis of hitting an inanimate object long gone, "I can't just walk. My reputation."
"You have a sparkling, incredible reputation. If you threaten to walk, it'll be clear to them that he's the problem, not you. Like you said, numbers are numbers. And theirs fucking suck."
I don't think I ever said that out loud. My eyes narrow, suspicious.
If he notices the change in my demeanor, he doesn't show it. Instead, he throws the dummy out of the way, the loud clatter making me jump. With both hands, he wordlessly gestures for me to come at him with the weapon, and I freeze.
"I'm not going to hit you with this," I huff.
"No, you're not," he laughs. "But you're gonna try."
Motherfucker.
"Isla," he coos, condescending as ever. "You can't hurt me, honey."
If that nickname sounded like nails on a chalkboard coming from Landon, it's like a screeching siren song from Eamon. I should ignore it; I know it for the taunt it is. But I'm unable to stop myself from attacking him anyway.
A brutal hit, aiming right for his shoulder. He swats it away like an annoying fly, a smile lifting one corner of his lips as his eyes light up with the challenge.
"Kill shots, Isla. If you hit another hunters shoulder, the only thing you'll do is piss them off."
I think of when I managed to hit Alastor with the bullet in his shoulder, and it barely slowed him down. I think he backed off because he chose to, not because he needed to. If the following interactions were any indication, everything was set up by him anyway.
Bouncing on my toes a couple times, I try again, aiming directly for Eamon's chest, where his heart is. Would be? Is there one in there?
I get a little closer this time before he blocks it with his forearm. My fingers get smashed between the axe and his arm where they collide, and the pain brings me into searing, furious focus.
Before he can taunt me again, I use my foot against his stomach, pushing with all my might. He takes a single step back, adjusting quickly, but I use that split second to swing again. He still blocks me, but not without effort.
Back and forth we go, swinging and blocking and kicking until I'm dripping with sweat, panting, and having almost forgotten about my issues outside of this room, all my anger slowly redirecting itself at Eamon and his stupid fucking face.
My teeth have been gritted for so long that my jaw aches, my shoulder burns from the constant exertion, and my eyes threaten to water from the frustration mixed with the overwhelming release of finally being able to give this violent energy somewhere to go.
With a final kick to his knee, making it buckle beneath him, I bring the axe down in a backhand, aiming for the soft spot where his shoulder meets his neck.
So fucking close.
But even still, he blocks the blow, grabbing the axe and knocking me flat on my ass.
"Ow."
He chuckles, hanging his head as he tosses the axe far out of my reach. "You did great."
"I missed," I throw my arms in the air.
He tilts his head slightly, showing me the tiniest sliver of black liquid seeping out of a cut in his golden skin. "Nah, you got me. If I were anyone else, I'd be dead."
The victory feels hollow. That microscopic break in the skin isn't nearly as satisfying as it should be. Leaning back on my hands, I let my head roll back, looking at the ceiling, frustrated that I can't do the one thing I'm apparently meant to do.
"And," his voice travels from where he's still on his knees a few feet from me, "If you were anyone else, you'd be dead."
"Excuse me?" my head snaps back, eyes locked on his.
Any rage I might have felt at the threat dries up in the heat of his gaze as it travels over me. His eyes are smoldering, so hot that I feel them on every inch of my sweat-slicked, exhausted body.
Leaning forward, he lands with his hands only inches from me. I never thought I'd be the type to crave someone crawling for me, but Jesus Christ, it's all I can think of now. This enormous, powerful, terrifying creature, supplicating himself for me.
I swallow the lump growing in my throat, begging my body not to react to what could be nothing, but as he eases closer, I know that it's not.
Slowly— so slowly , to give me time to deny him, he crawls over me until his hands bracket my waist on the floor. One of his knees spreads my legs, his gaze locked on my face as I pant, frozen in the wake of his predatory onslaught.
If I thought his crawling was submission, I was dead wrong.
I am the prey caught in a deadly hunter's sights, his prowling, slow seduction only drawing me in close enough that I have no chance of escape.
The predator becomes more evident, red bleeding into his eyes as he leans in to whisper against my lips, " No one has ever drawn that much blood and walked away. Do you know that, my little hunter?"
I can't speak, his soothing voice so at odds with the violent promise in his words. All I manage is to shake my head.
Running his nose down mine, he sighs my name, the sound so ragged it sends a shiver down my spine. I can't help the small whimper that escapes me, hearing the desire in his voice, all that animal prowess directed at me, making heat grow low in my belly, the wetness gathering between my thighs almost unbearable.
Whether or not I like Eamon, which I fucking don't, there's no denying my body wants him to fuck me stupid. I can't even remember why it would be a bad idea right now, only thinking of all the ways he'd bend me and throw me, making me into a little fucktoy.
His soft, hot mouth marks a trail towards my ear, gently biting the lobe and tugging, making my brain short-circuit. Slowly, gently, his lips meet the spot just behind my ear, drawing a soft sigh from my mouth. His traveling lips and tongue feel like both a fire and the balm soothing it, the light, laving touch so different than he's ever been with me.
I fall back onto my elbows and let my head fall behind me, the effort of holding up against him fruitless. One of his knees eases my legs further apart, and I let them fall completely, lost in how he's clouding all of my senses. Everything around me is him. His scent, the sound of his harsh breaths, all of my nerves focused solely on his lips against my collarbone, working slowly lower. Were I to open my eyes, the sight would be too much, but fuck, I can't help it.
When I do, the forest green and red fight for dominance as his eyes lock on mine. The need in them mirrors mine as I watch his tongue dip under the line of the suit. My jaw drops, and I moan, all control of my body leaving me the longer this goes on.
His teeth grip the zipper, pulling it down so slowly I can hear every inch of it coming undone until he stops just below my tits.
He lays that filthy, incredible tongue flat, dragging it all the way up between my breasts until he meets my ear again.
"Isla," he groans. "Christ, every inch of you is delicious."
I can't fucking breathe. It's too much.
Too slow, too passionate, too desperate.
He's clouding my judgment, laying both of us bare and vulnerable.
I can't fucking take this kind of need. Certainly not from him.
This is just lust. It can't be anything else.
My breathing speeds, and not from the arousal. Fear, cold and cloying tears at my skin, reminding me of the last time Eamon tasted me. Of the promise I made to make him fucking miserable, too.
With one of the many tricks he taught me, I wrap a leg around him, lifting my opposite hip and flipping him onto his back. Surprise lights up his features briefly, and his hands land on my hips.
The hard ridge of his dick feels incredible slotted between my legs where I'm perched on him, and I rock against it to make my intentions perfectly clear.
As good as it feels, this isn't about me getting off.
I lock in, making my heart as hard as the cock pressed against me. Mirroring our before position, I land my hands on the sides of Eamon's head, staring down at his slack-jawed, handsome face.
A growl builds in his chest, his grip on my hips hardening as he drags me back and forth on him, every inch of his cock rubbing against my clit. I move my body with his ministrations, riding that hard ridge and watching his face as he loses himself to the sensation.
While my moans aren't entirely faked, I'm certainly playing them up to bring him to the brink of insanity. If I let myself, I know I could come just from this, from the ceaseless way he's pushing and pulling us together.
My tits beg to be freed, trying to spill out of the skin-tight body suit the longer we rock together. Quickly debating if it's going to help or hurt, I decide to unzip the suit further, letting them fall out.
"Oh, fuck," Eamon's groan and tightening grip rewards the decision, amping up both of our pleasure even as I try to remain in control of mine. One of his hands travels up my stomach, reaching the spot he licked earlier. "They're so fucking pretty, baby."
A moan bubbles out of me at the tortured praise. Without stopping my hips working up and down his clothed length, I grab both of his hands, placing them on my chest. For his benefit, obviously. Not mine.
No matter how perfectly he holds them, both worshipping and torturing them while he grips, massages, and finally gently pinches my nipples, making me cry out, I can't lose focus.
"Feels so good," the words escape my mouth without my permission in a filthy moan.
The admission fuels his ministrations and that dirty mouth, shredding away whatever soft seduction he had hoped for, replacing it with wanton, filthy need.
"I knew these fucking tits would be perfect," he pinches again, eyes locked on the pink, stiff peaks. "God, I bet they taste so fucking good."
I want more than anything to let him find out for sure, but I can't. His hands already feel too good, and if that hot tongue touches them, I'm going to fall apart before either of us has even taken our clothes off.
One of his talented hands sneaks up, wrapping teasingly around my throat for a split second before he grips my ponytail, bringing my lips crashing against his.
This new positioning brings my nipples against his hard chest, rubbing against them with every small motion as he drags his tongue druggingly against mine. A filthy moan radiates from him, and I drink it down, reveling in the taste of him, his large hands gripping my ass and cupping the back of my neck to keep me right where he wants me.
Again and again, his tongue pins mine, his teeth grazing my lower lip.
Moans and high-pitched cries fall out of my mouth and into his over and over, unable to stop the overwhelming need growing in my stomach. Even fighting against it, I feel every muscle in my body tightening, preparing for the inevitable release.
"Baby," he groans against my lips, biting slightly harder and soothing the sting with his tongue. "Fuck, come on. Give it to me. I know you need to come, rub that pretty cunt against my cock and drench me, gorgeous."
His name leaves my mouth in little more than a pained whimper, and he nods, growling and urging me on with a chanting of my name. "Isla, Isla, Isla, " he groans as if he needs me to orgasm more than I do— like it's his lifeblood, his salvation. "Let go, little hunter. Let me hear you scream for me again. That pussy's so hot and wet, I can feel you through our clothes."
War rages in my head and my body. I don't want to give in, don't want him to have this level of control over me. But Jesus Christ, I haven't been able to make myself come as hard as he can, no matter how much I've tried. I've ached for this release, edged myself for hours, used my favorite toy over and over until overstimulation set in. And nothing has brought me to the edge like this. A little dry-humping and dirty talk, and I've become a mindless animal, chasing the high with someone I tried to kill not ten minutes ago.
And he won't shut up, drowning me with his dirty words, "I can't wait to have you wrapped around my cock, taking every inch and begging for fucking mercy. Is that what you want, Sweetheart? To be stuffed fucking full of me, stretched around me and used up like my own personal little fuck doll?" The imagery of that last question almost pulls me over the edge, a loud moan escaping me.
With one deft movement, he rubs himself against my clit harder and bites into my neck, not drawing blood or breaking skin, just breaking any hope I have of fighting against him and the orgasm ripping through me.
A harsh, high shout barrels out of me while the damn breaks, wave after wave of pleasure taking over me while he keeps us moving, keeps rubbing against me through our clothes, licking away the pain of his bite. A sympathetic groan radiates into my neck, like my relief was his own, as his touch gentles. Working me all the way through until finally, my body returns to earth, and I come face to face with his gorgeous, stupid, gorgeous expression.
No mirth, no cruelty, just pure ego satisfaction and lust.
With the fog clearing, an unpleasant heat builds in my chest. I'm so fucking sick of how easy it is for him to use my body against me.
It's past time for me to return the favor, and he's far too worked up and pleased with himself to see it coming.